


Ship to Wreck

by punch_kicker15



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-12-07 04:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11615976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punch_kicker15/pseuds/punch_kicker15
Summary: Set in an AU in which Giles never summoned Eyghon or returned to the Watcher’s Council. During the events of Wild at Heart, Willow makes an intense connection with the new magic shop owner.





	1. Chapter 1

**_Buffy:_ ** _I have to go. I have to find Veruca before the sun sets. I will, though. When I do, this thing stops. She's bad news. Do you want me to get you something before I take off? Kleenex? Chocolatey... Chocolate anything?_

**_Willow:_ ** _No._

**_Buffy_ ** _: I'll come back as soon as this is finished. I just want you to take it easy, ok? Riley was right. The main thing is put the blame where it belongs. Don't hurt yourself._

**_\--Wild at Heart_ **

 

After Buffy left, Willow leaned back on the bed, desperately trying to think about anything except Oz’s betrayal. But her usual distractions--fanfic, music--were all about relationships, which she couldn’t bear to think about. She picked up her world history textbook, and then threw it back down on the bed in disgust. Studying at a time like this was something that only the dullest person alive would do. Oz and Veruca were probably off somewhere together laughing at boring old Willow and her pain.

Buffy’s words kept tumbling through her head. _Put the blame where it belongs._

Oz and Veruca were the leading players in the blame-o-rama game, but they would never hurt as much as she was hurting right now. It wasn’t fair.

She put the textbook back on the shelf, and grabbed a spellbook. She flipped through the pages, until the words _Deceitful Hearts Be Broken_ caught her eye. The casting seemed straightforward enough, and she had everything except dragon’s blood. She grabbed her wallet and headed out to the magic shop.

***

As if her day wasn’t bad enough already, someone had rearranged all of the ingredients at the shop, so there were chicken feet where hellebore used to be, and angelica root where the chicken feet used to be. She hunted in vain for the dragon’s blood.

“May I help you find something?” The voice behind her made her yelp in surprise.

She turned, and blurted out the obvious: “You aren’t Mr. Bogarty!”

The tall man smiled at her. “No. I’m Rupert Giles. And you are?”

It was the easiest question in the world, but it felt like it took forever for her brain to kick into gear, because he was staring at her. Not in a “look at what a weirdo Willow is” kind of way, but in the way that guys sometimes looked at Buffy. No one ever looked at Willow with that much intensity, not even Oz. And especially not handsome men with British accents. It felt simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying, like standing at the edge of a high cliff.  And she had no idea how she was supposed to react to it.

After what felt like an eternity, she said, “Willow Rosenberg.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said. “Was there something you were looking for?”

“Dragon’s blood. I’ve looked all around and I can’t find it anywhere.”

He sighed. “There’s a good reason for that. There’s a shortage right now, and we won’t have any more until the next dragon-hunting season.”

“When will that be?” she asked, her voice quavering. Would she have the guts to complete the spell if she had to wait a few days? A few weeks?

“Not until 2005, I’m afraid.”

This was too much to bear. “But I need it!” she wailed. Everything started to blur as tears welled up in her eyes. To add to the humiliation factor, once she started, she couldn’t stop crying.

He put his hand on her shoulder and steered her to the back of the shop. She collapsed into an armchair, trying to think of a way to stop bawling. She’d read somewhere that physical pain could distract from emotional pain and cut short a crying jag. She dug her nails into her palms, as hard as she could. The pain worked; the flood of tears finally slowed.

When the room came back into focus, she noticed that the new shopkeeper had made a cup of tea for her. “Thanks,” she croaked. She took a small sip of the tea; it was way too smoky and bitter to be enjoyable, but it coated the back of her throat, obliterating the salty residue of her tears.

He knelt beside the chair and asked, “What happened to you?”

She’d interrupted his workday with a ten-minute tearfest, and he’d made tea for her. It seemed rude not to offer some explanation. She began, “It’s my boyfriend--” and before she knew it, she’d blabbed out the whole story, werewolves and all, right up to the point where Riley had dragged her away from the car.

At that point he interrupted her. “I understand. You wanted the dragon’s blood for the Deceitful Hearts spell.”

“Yeah, that was it.”

“I think it’s probably for the best that I’m out of dragon’s blood.”

She braced herself for some boring speech about responsible use of magic.

Instead he said, “Your boyfriend sounds like a right pillock. It would be a shame to waste perfectly good dragon’s blood on him.”

She shocked herself by giggling in response. Just five minutes ago she thought she’d never laugh again. He laughed, too, clearly pleased with himself.

“May I make a suggestion? This might be a good time to getting some stress out of your system. I know a spell that could help.”

She followed him to the next storeroom, trying not to gawk at all of the boxes of charms and unidentifiable animal parts.

Crash test dummies were lined up parallel to the far wall. “What are those for?” she asked.

“Target practice.” He cupped his hands together for a moment, and then opened them to reveal a twitchy little ball of magic. He threw it at the dummy, which wobbled but didn’t fall over.

“How did you--”

He put his hands over hers. “Hold your hands together like this. Now visualize all of your power flowing into a sphere in your hands.”

She took a deep breath and tried to follow his instructions. Without an incantation, her magic seemed to just be flailing around her insides. “I can’t. Everything’s too jumbly.”

He fished something out of his pocket and put it in her hand. “Bloodstone crystal. Close your eyes and hold onto it for minute, and we’ll get that energy re-focused.”

At first it just felt like a highly polished rock in her hand. Maybe crystals weren’t as powerful as the books made them sound. Or maybe she was the problem. She was just about to give up when her palms tingled. Her eyes flew open as she willed the magic into a sphere. She raised her arms and threw it. It soared, then abruptly plummeted, hitting the dummy’s feet.

“That’s a good start,” he said. “But you can’t let go mentally when it leaves your hand. Think of it as an extension of your mind until you hit the target.”

Standing up straighter, she tried again. It felt kind of like stretching her arm all across the room. She hit the dummy with a satisfying thunk. She tried again, thinking about how catty and mean Veruca had been to her. The ball of magic hit the dummy even harder. This was getting fun. She conjured up another ball of magic and thought of the way Oz had ignored her the other day at lunch--he wasn’t a wolf then. Her magic pulsed with her heartbeat, expanded and veered off course, knocking down a Horned God idol on the other side of the room with a loud crash.

“I’m sorry!” Willow blurted out. “I didn’t mean to!”

He examined the idol. “He’s lost his horns, but otherwise he’s unscathed.”

She wanted to crawl under a bed somewhere for the rest of her life. “I’ll pay for it.”

He shook his head. “Think I’ll double the price, and say it was scarred by a beautiful and powerful witch.”

“You can’t do that!” That was like, deceptive business practices or something.

“Why not? It’s nothing but the truth.” There was that intense look of his again. She felt a furious blush spreading over her face.

Then her knees got a little wobbly, and she stumbled slightly. He made a move to catch her, but she waved him off. “I’m fine.”

He asked, “Would you like to go somewhere for a bite to eat?”

She hadn’t eaten this morning because she was bringing breakfast and coffee to Oz. She hadn’t wanted to eat afterwards. Just the thought of eating made her feel a little queasy.

Willow cleared her throat, and tried to sound as cool and grown-up as possible as she replied, “Sure, I’d love to.”


	2. Chapter 2

The magic shop, like the convertible, had been an impulse purchase for Rupert.

For the past few weeks, he’d been wondering if the shop had been a mistake. He’d expected it to be an excellent vantage point for a variety of magic users, both demonic and human. But the human customers were visiting the shop as a lark, which seemed odd given Sunnydale’s reputation. His days had been occupied with the dreary tasks of running a business.

But now, in the convertible, sunlight warmed his skin, and beside him sat a brilliant girl, the wind whipping through her bright red hair. Now all of the drudgery—maintaining inventory, adjusting prices, and humoring idiotic customers—seemed entirely worthwhile.

When they reached Capriccio’s, Willow looked inside the window and balked. Rupert had the sinking feeling that she’d decided to go home and collapse in misery again.

She looked up at him, anxiety written all over her face. “This place looks fancy. Should I have dressed up?”

He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’ll be fine. The owner’s aren’t pretentious. They’ll appreciate someone adding a touch of color to the place.”

The dining room was half-empty, just a dozen businessmen blathering to each other about sales accounts. Their yammering blended into a low hum, creating ideal conditions for a quiet conversation with Willow.

He asked, “Your boyfriend never took you here?” It was obvious from her earlier question, and from her curious stares at the brightly-colored paintings and mosaics on the walls: this place was entirely new to her. Still, he could learn as much from the way she answered as he could from the actual answer.

Her face crumpled a little, but she composed herself. “No we’d just do takeout like Doublemeat Palace.”

“That’s a shame,” he said. “A lovely young lady like you deserves to be courted.”

The interplay of emotions on her face was fascinating. First she blushed at the compliment, and then her eyebrows drew down in indignation on behalf of her wretched boyfriend. It was odd and rather refreshing to watch someone who wore her heart on her sleeve all the time. Everyone Rupert knew kept their emotions walled up, adopting an air of invulnerability or ironic detachment.

“He’s a college student. And he’s in a band, so he’s broke,” Willow protested. But her voice was weary, as if she didn’t have much stomach for defending him.

Rupert murmured, “You’re very loyal to him. I have to say it doesn’t sound like he deserves it.”

She looked down at her hands, which were unfolding and re-folding her napkin. “He was a good boyfriend before all this happened. And he forgave _me_.”

“Did he really?” Rupert asked. “From what you’ve told me, he brought it up this morning. In my experience, when someone truly forgives a betrayal, he doesn’t hold onto it as an excuse for his own misbehavior.”

She made a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and her shoulders slumped even more. “You—you have a point. I got maybe three sentences out before he threw it into my face. He wanted so much time to process the fluking thing back then, but this morning he wouldn’t give me five minutes to vent before he started getting blamey.” Her voice rose, and the words tumbled out almost on top of each other, as if a dam had broken, and a torrent of words were flooding out. “The more I think about it, the madder I get. On top of everything else, he let me think that I was being Crazy Jealousy Girl, when actually I was _right_ about the two of them.”

The anger in her voice encouraged him; that was a far more promising response than moping. Anger was a strong motivator to move forward; moping tended to keep one in a state of inertia.

She glanced at the menu.  “Oh, ziti!” Then without looking up, and without any segue whatsoever, she asked, “Where did the Flingy Spell come from?”

Caught off guard by the multiple changes of subject, he could only stammer, “Er—“ in response.

“The spell you showed me in the shop? How did you learn it?” She looked up, and seemed to sense his discombobulation at the sudden change in subject. “I’m tired of talking about me and Oz. It’s the only thing I’ve talked about all day. Let’s talk about you.”

Just then, the waiter came and took their order.

Rupert asked, “Would you like to share a bottle of wine?”

She shook her head. “Not when I’m feeling all grr—my friend’s dad drinks when he’s mad, and it just leads to badness.”

It was difficult to imagine her as a mean drunk, but he didn’t press the matter. He ordered a glass of Vermentino for himself.

After the waiter left, Rupert said, “The spell I showed you is called Nasser’s Projectile. I learned it with a group of friends in London.”

A hopeful look crossed over her face. “Did your friends come here, too?” He understood. Given the utter uselessness of the “Wiccans” who’d visited his shop, Willow might encounter difficulties finding others to help her learn magic.

“No,” he replied. “It’s been a long time since most of them have practiced magic. They’ve all grown old and unadventurous—just boring, really.”

She asked, “Is that why you left? Because you were afraid if you stayed, you’d turn boring too?”

His heart thudded to a stop for a moment. _This one’s even sharper than you guessed, Rupert. Half out of her mind from heartbreak and she can still read you._ “Um—yes, I suppose that’s the gist of it. I wanted new adventures; they didn’t.”

“I can see that,” she said. “It’s hard to get in a rut at the magic shop when there’s a break-in or demon attack every other week.” A wistful look crossed her face. “I’d like to see London someday. I’ve never even been out of California.”

“You’d love it,” he said. “It’s the finest city in the world.” _You’d attract a crowd of admirers five minutes after arriving there_ , he thought, but he kept that sentiment to himself. Instead he spoke of live music nights at Dublin Castle, ghost hunting at The Flask, and teleporting into the Barbican to sneak into the tropical gardens.

She listened with rapt attention for a good quarter of an hour, her dark green eyes shining with wonder.  “Wow, I can’t imagine why your friends ever got tired of that.” Then she abruptly shifted gears again. “I keep forgetting to ask you—how are you sorting the ingredients at the shop? It wasn’t alphabetical, and it wasn’t Mr. Bogarty’s system.”

“He had a system? What on earth was it?” Rupert asked.  It had bewildered him for days now.

“It was geographic,” she answered. “Kind of like wine? It never made any sense to me. Nobody goes into a magic shop and says, ‘I don’t care what kind of spell I cast, as long as all of the ingredients come from Bolivia.’”

He chuckled. “No one serious about the craft, of course. Though I’ve seen a fair number of unserious customers. My system is grouping together ingredients that are used in the same spells. So Angelica root, jasmine, hyacinth, and goldenrod are together because they’re all used in the Demon Locator spell.”

“Ooh!” She bounced in her chair a little. “A Demon Locator spell sounds really nifty. What book is it from?”

“It’s from Bester’s Guide. The Watcher hasn’t taught it to you?” At her stricken look, he added, “You didn’t give away The Slayer’s identity. It’s obvious to anyone with a clue about the supernatural.”

Their food arrived. He was grateful for the interruption; it gave him a few seconds to think of the exact words to say next. He could be treading on dangerous ground if he didn’t get the phrasing properly ambiguous.

After a few bites of pasta, he said, in what he hoped sounded like a completely casual tone, “I could walk you through the Demon Locator spell. It can be a bit challenging to cast, so I’d rather not try it in the shop. But if you’d like to come over to my flat sometime, I’d be happy to help.”

He sipped his wine, letting the bitterness roll over his tongue, feeling a bit of trepidation. Flirting with her and inviting her to lunch was one thing; a standing invitation to his flat was far more aggressive, and could easily backfire. On the other hand, Willow seemed oblivious to her sexual allure; she might not even recognize a subtler approach. And a woman like her would rarely be alone for long. Even in this odd little town, sooner or later, someone would appreciate her charms. He’d rather risk offending her by acting too quickly than risk missing a shot at her by waiting.

She went completely still. Her usually expressive face turned to an unreadable mask. After a few agonizing seconds, she smiled and asked, “How about right after lunch?”

His mouth went dry. He took another sip of the wine, which didn’t help. This was all happening much faster than he’d imagined. But if the universe dropped this opportunity in his lap, who was he to turn it down?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willow visits Rupert's apartment, and things get a bit heated.

Rupert opened the door to his apartment, and Willow gazed in wonder at the maps on the walls. Some she recognized as constellation maps. One of them was a fairly detailed survey of Sunnydale. Others didn’t look like any place on earth she knew. Maybe they were maps of other dimensions. Her heart thumped faster at that thought.

There was a table stacked high with glass cases filed with neatly-sorted charms, and strings of crystals hung from the ceiling. But what made her breath hitch were the bookshelves lining the walls. She’d never seen so many occult books in one spot, except for Merrick’s collection at the Sunnydale High Library. She already knew that Rupert was an expert in magic, but the physical proof of it was impressive.

She turned to him. He was standing so close to her that she could breathe in his scent—sandalwood and something herbal. She looked into his eyes, entranced by their stunning light green color. She stammered, “This is—so—um—” There was a patch of brown in his left eye. How strange that an imperfection made him even more beautiful. She had a vague sense that she’d stopped mid-sentence, but couldn’t remember what she’d been talking about. He moved even closer, and leaned in to kiss her. His lips were soft and tasted of wine.

An annoying little voice in her head chided, _This is exactly what they tell you never to do. You should never go to a man’s apartment on the same day you first meet him. And you should never kiss someone you barely know. Especially in Sunnydale!_

But she was tired of playing it safe, of being Sensible Girl. She’d tried so hard to live her life by the rules, and what did she have to show for it? Heartbreak and humiliation, while the Verucas of the world got everything they ever wanted.

So she ignored the voice, and kissed him back, sliding her hands under his jacket and wrapping her arms around him. The kiss grew hungrier, leaving her gasping for air. She’d never been kissed with so much intensity before. He pressed her against the door, thrusting his hips against her. He was hard for her already. This was exactly the reaction she’d hoped for when she’d put on that stupid leather outfit for Oz. Only Rupert wanted her— _really_ wanted her in her baggy old shirt and grubby pants. His desire sparked a fire inside her. She ground against him, reveling in the sensation of his cock pressing between her legs.

The annoying little voice persisted. _What about Oz?_ That was a dumb question. Right now, an intelligent, sophisticated man desperately wanted her. How often was that likely to happen? Should she turn down a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to try to save her relationship with Oz? He was going to dump her, either for Veruca or for some other hotter girl later on. Nothing either one of them could do or say would change that.

She banished the annoying internal questions, and bit Rupert’s lip, running her hand along the small of his back, just to hear him moan. He bucked harder against her, slamming her hips into the door. Then it was her turn to moan as his hands slipped under her shirt. Her nipples hardened in anticipation as he unclasped her bra.

He tweaked a nipple slightly too hard, momentarily taking her out of her haze of pleasure. She yelped, and he murmured, “Sorry.” She welcomed the pain, because it was proof that this was real and not some Hellmouthy thing making her daydreams came true. She’d come here expecting they’d cast the spell and one thing might lead to another, and they might work up to this. Everything was happening way faster than she ever could have imagined ( _too fast_ , the annoying little voice warned). But there was part of her psyche that had been waiting years for this.

He stepped back from her, and her heart stopped for a second. Had he changed his mind?

To her relief, he took her hand and led her to his bedroom. He shed his clothes quickly, clearly uninhibited about nudity. She felt oddly shy about undressing, even though she was blatantly staring at his body. He was taller and more solid than anyone she’d been with, and his clothes had obscured some well-defined muscles. He seemed to understand her hesitancy, and grasped the hem of her shirt, helping her pull it off. She let her bra fall to the floor, and the appreciative look in his eyes gave her enough confidence to take off her pants and underwear.

He reached for her, cupping her breasts in his hands. “Beautiful,” he breathed, the word sending flutters through her. No one else had ever called her beautiful and meant it; the nicest thing Oz had said about her appearance was, “you look great.” She’d never thought of herself as beautiful, but when Rupert said it that reverent tone, she could almost believe she was.

They lay down on the bed, kissing again, his weight crushing her into the mattress. The sheets were cool against her back. He was warm, and there was a thin layer of sweat building up where their skin touched. She gazed at him, trying to memorize every detail of this moment: the soft rumble of his voice, the yearning look on his face, the warmth of his hands softly caressing her.

His hand traced down to the inside of her thigh. Heat throbbed through her as his hand moved upwards. Desperate for more contact, she pushed against him as his fingers brushed against her folds. He kissed her harder, teeth bruising her lips, and slid his fingers inside her.

“God, you’re wet,” he whispered.

The motion of his fingers gave her no relief; it only fanned the flame of her arousal. “Please—I need—” she gasped.

He grabbed a foil packet from a drawer and handed it to her. As she rolled the condom on him, he groaned, and his hips jolted involuntarily, and her own desire burned even hotter. It was exhilarating, having the power to make him writhe with just a light touch of her hand.

She trembled as he rolled back over, his cock rubbing against her, so close, but still so maddeningly far from what she wanted. Then he finally pushed inside her.

He thrust into her in a steady rhythm, leaving her achingly empty and then blissfully filled. An incoherent noise tore from her throat. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her legs around him, pulling him even deeper inside her.

“Fuck,” he panted, and the rhythm sped up. His eyes were still drinking her in, as if just the sight of her was driving his need as much as the frantic undulations of their bodies.

Heat rising in her core, she arched up to meet his thrusts. He kissed along her throat, up to her ear, and the hot breath against her skin sent her tumbling over the edge. She wrapped her legs tighter around him, gripping his shoulders hard as she rode out her climax. It started in the small of her back, and flowed all the way down to her toes and all the way up to the roots of her hair.

Too much sensation at once; she closed her eyes so she could savor each little aftershock as he sped up his pace. How could one of the worst days of her life also include a moment like this? It felt miraculous.

When she’d come back to earth, he was still driving into her. His gaze didn’t waver, though his eyes looked a bit unfocused as he came with a cry. He collapsed on her, breathing hard.

After he’d caught his breath and dealt with the condom, he rolled onto his side and pulled her over to face him. She kissed him softly. That was usually how things ended with her and Oz—orgasm, and a little kiss afterwards.

Rupert kissed her back, but didn’t stop there. His hands roamed gently over her body, finding sensitive spots, lightly teasing them.

“Oh, right there!” she blurted out, as his hands brushed between her shoulder blades, which she’d never thought of as an erogenous zone. Until now.

She ran fingers through his chest hair, thumbs skimming over his collarbone. He groaned, and his hands went still. She smiled, pleased to have found one of his sensitive spots.

This was warm and tender and sweet, but if they kept this up, they’d be heading for Round Two, and she wasn’t ready for that yet. It had been an impulsive decision to sleep with him, but that didn’t mean she took that decision lightly. She needed a little more time for it all to sink in.

“Hey,” she murmured, as he traced circles over her breastbone. “This is nice—way better than nice, but I think I need a breather. Do you think we could try the spell?”

To her relief, he didn’t take offense. He laughed. “I appreciate your dedication to the craft.”

“Well,” she said in a tone she hoped sounded playful, “I just don’t want anyone to think that the _only_ reason I came over was to have my wicked way with you.”

He kissed her again, and put on his undershirt and boxer shorts. She pulled on her shirt and underwear. She couldn’t find her pants, but she was way past the point of modesty with him anyway. She followed him down the hallway, eager to learn more about the spell.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willow and Rupert perform the spell, with some unexpected results.

In the living room, Rupert grabbed a map from the wall and handed Willow a spellbook.

She flipped through the book to the demon location spell. It sounded really cool. They would each get a potion to blow on the square during the incantation. The potions would combine in a mist over the map where the demons were, and the colors of the mist would indicate the demon breed.

She watched him mix one the potions in a mortar. “I have, um, a million questions.”

He smiled indulgently at her. “Let’s start with the first one.” He handed her another mortar.

She took one of the mortars from him and started grinding jasmine flowers. “Why does your potion use dandelion instead of heliotrope?”

“Heliotrope can be associated with invisibility as well as divination. Accidentally introducing invisibility into this kind of spell—“

“—would defeat the purpose of it, I get it now. Next question:  it says you can use either camphor or jasmine for the first potion. Why’d you pick jasmine?”

“The smell,” he said.

“Really?” Was there some connection with an ingredient’s fragrance and its efficacy? She hadn’t read about it her magic books, but maybe it was a major factor she’d been missing. Maybe that was why her spells had unpredictable results.”

“Yes, the smell. I’ve had to use some foul-smelling ingredients sometimes. But given a choice, I’d rather have this place smell like jasmine for a week instead of reeking of camphor for months.”

She laughed for a moment, and then her curiosity prompted her to the next question. “Why are we invoking Thespia for this?”

“Good question. It’s a long story.” He pulled down a volume from one of the bookshelves.  “Anthea Costa’s compendium of deities is the best place to start.”

They sat down together at the kitchen table, and started discussing Thespia’s historical associations with demons. That led to more questions about the origins of the Thespia cult, and the development of demon-scrying magic over time.

After consulting several dozen texts, and asking too many questions to count, she said, “I think that answered everything. I’m ready to try it now.”

They settled down on the floor, the map between them. He handed her the mortar or green powder.

She closed her eyes and chanted, “Thespia, we walk in shadow, walk in blindness. You are the protector of the night.”

He picked up his part of the incantation, “Thespia, goddess, ruler of all darkness, we implore you, open a window to the world of the underbeing.”

She sent the powder off with a quick puff of air. Her skin prickled all over as her magic touched his. It felt light and bracing, like an ocean breeze.

With a slight tremor in his voice, he finished, “With your knowledge may we go in safety. With your grace may we speak of your benevolence.”

She opened her eyes. “Oh, hey! Mist! Wow, that's a lot of demons on the map. Guess we didn’t really need to do the spell to figure that out.”

Rupert looked a bit flushed. “Gods, you’re powerful.” He touched her hand, and the connection between their magic intensified. Her hand grew warmer, and the warmth climbed up her arm. This was a new kind of intimacy for her. From the wicked grin on his face, she guessed that this wasn’t new for him. As he pulled her closer to him, she thought maybe she was ready for Round Two now.

She looked back at the map, fascinated by the way their magic flowed together into the points of light. And then she noticed something a bit odd. “Is one of those lights getting—bigger?”

“That means something is very close.” He scrambled to his feet.

There was a scraping noise at the door. Willow’s heart pounded hard. Had they inadvertently summoned a demon with the spell?

The door swung open. Willow braced herself for something really dangerous, and almost laughed when Veruca lurched through. An unwelcome and annoying demon invasion was better than a murderous one.

Veruca fixed a cold stare on Willow and snickered. “Wow, you’re even more pathetic than I thought. This dried-up fossil is your idea of revenge?”

“I take it this is Veruca?”  Rupert asked. “You were far too kind when you described her. She does have the voice of an albatross. But with that hunched neck of hers, I’d say a vulture is a more apt comparison.”

Veruca sneered. “Yeah, go ahead and talk, Grandpa. That’s all you _can_ do—“

He lifted a hand. “ _Silencio!”_

Veruca’s mouth kept moving, but no sound came out. He smirked. “That’s more than _you_ can do now.”

She opened her mouth wider, and when no sound came out, she looked a bit rattled. It was about time someone knocked some of that smug superiority out of her. Willow couldn’t find it in herself to feel the least bit sorry.

But there was something about how casually he’d come up with a silencing spell, and the hard look on his face. It was kind of freaky. She never wanted to get on his bad side.

Then something subtle—a flash of teeth, perhaps, or just a look in Veruca’s eyes—made Willow flinch. Veruca lunged at her, and Willow’s legs felt rooted in space. Instead of thinking of some sort of defensive spell or finding a weapon, her stupid brain was fixated on trying to figure out why this was happening.

“Vincire!” Rupert shouted. Willow yelped as cold blast of magic brushed past her skin.

The magic coiled around Veruca. She pushed and kicked against the bonds, but they held firm.

He grabbed Willow’s arm and pulled her away. Veruca continued thrashing against the magic.

“I don’t understand,” Willow muttered.

“She lost her ability to attack with words, so she switched to good old-fashioned violence instead.”

That still didn’t make any sense. “Why would she want to? She’s already won.”

“Maybe she sees you as more of a threat than you think,” he said, and it seemed like he was about to say more. Then there was a small, almost imperceptible noise, and he flinched, looking towards the door. “Get behind me,” he hissed.

The noise got a little louder, until she recognized it as the stairs creaking. Oz raced into the apartment, stumbling in his haste. He spotted Willow, and the tension in his shoulders relaxed.

The he took a breath, and turned his gaze on Rupert, and then back at her. Oz’s jaw clenched slightly. She’d learned to read the small changes in his expressions, and while he might look stoic to anyone else, she could see that he was hurt.

She had a petty little moment of triumph. He wouldn’t be hurt if she didn’t matter to him. Then a wave of completely illogical guilt crashed through her. She felt sympathetic tears well up at the sight of the wounded look in his eyes.  Her head wanted to be done caring about Oz’s feelings, but part of her heart still hurt when he hurt. Why couldn’t she stop feeling something when she wanted to?

The look in Oz’s eyes shifted from wounded to predatory, and Willow’s heart pounded as she remembered that tonight was the third wolf night. She’d lost track of time while discussing the spell. The sun was about to set.

Willow screamed, “Look out!” as Oz leapt at Rupert.

With another shout of “ _Vincire!_ ” magic encircled Oz. His hair had grown longer, and his face was morphing from human to lupine.

Willow glanced away from Oz and towards Veruca, who was also wolfing out. She _had_ to know that she was about to transform.

“If I’d been alone, instead of coming here—“ she whispered to Rupert. Her voice wobbled as the motive for Veruca’s visit became clear. “She would have killed me.” She dissolved into a flood of tears.

He wrapped his arms around her. She clutched at him, needing something solid to hang onto just to keep standing upright. She’d faced death before, but there was a difference between a vampire looking for food, and someone deliberately setting out to murder her. He gently touched her hair as she sobbed uncontrollably.

More creaking on the stairs. What was next? A zombie invasion force? This day couldn’t get any more traumatic.

The universe apparently had a sense of humor, because it proved her wrong a moment later:  Buffy ran through the door, holding a tranq gun. That shocked Willow out of her crying jag. She suddenly felt like the world’s biggest skank. She wasn’t ashamed of what she’d done, but without context, it looked bad, like Parker-level bad. She put a little distance between herself and Rupert.

Buffy took in Willow’s tear-stained face, and their clothes, or really the lack of clothes. Her face took on that severe look she got for people who disgusted her. She dropped the tranq gun, and punched Rupert in the stomach, hard.

He fell to the ground, wheezing, and Buffy wound up for another punch.

Willow darted between them. “Buffy, stop!” she pleaded. “He saved my life!”

Thank goodness for Buffy’s quick reflexes. She stopped her arm, but she continued glaring at Rupert with anger and revulsion. “What did you to her? Some kind of sex spell? You better reverse it right now!”

At some point, Willow might be able to explain what had happened, in a way that Buffy might understand. But right now Buffy had worked up a lot of righteous indignation, and Willow needed to defuse it, fast. “Nothing happened! We were just practicing a spell.”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “A _pantsless_ spell?”

Crud. _Think of a reasonable explanation,_ she told herself. _A sky-clad spell? No, that’ll make Buffy think it was all some plan to get me naked._

“A teleportation spell,” Rupert gasped out. “We needed to change into ceremonial robes to perform it. The werewolves broke in while we were changing.” He pushed himself up, moving a bit gingerly. “Changing in separate rooms,” he clarified.

“Ceremonial robes, yeah right,” Buffy muttered, but her expression turned slightly less murder-y.

He caught his breath. “If you prefer, in the future I’ll prioritize my attire over Willow’s safety.” He pointed at the werewolves. “Those bonds won’t hold them forever. I suggest you find a more permanent confinement solution soon.”

“Fine,” Buffy snapped. “But if I find out you hurt her, I will beat that sarcasm out of you with a shovel. C’mon, Willow.”

Willow hesitated. Going back with Buffy would mean filling Merrick and Xander on the humiliating Veruca story.  There would be a bunch of lectures about going over to strange men’s houses and practicing magic with people she didn’t know. And trying to figure out, what, if anything, she should do about Oz. Her head ached just thinking about it.

“Willow!” Buffy hissed. “Why are you just standing there? Is he hexing you right now?”

“No, I’m just trying to remember where my pants are.” As much as she wanted to stay, that would only strengthen Buffy’s suspicion of mind-control spells. The only way to disprove it was to demonstrate that she could leave of her own free will.

“They’re in the spare bedroom. I’ll fetch them for you,” Rupert said.

He returned with her pants and shoes. She dressed quickly. Buffy had already heaved the werewolves onto her back and was waiting impatiently at the door.

She sighed. A goodbye kiss was out of the question. “Thanks for showing me that spell, and for saving me from Veruca,” she said, hoping her voice had the right tone. Too familiar and Buffy might get worked up on her behalf. Too impersonal, and he might think that she blamed him for the way things had spiraled out of control in the last ten minutes. Her voice sounded artificially cheery to her ears, but no one said anything about it.

As she and Buffy walked down the stairs, Buffy staggering a little under the weight of the werewolves, Willow noticed a lump in one of pockets. She reached inside and found the bloodstone crystal she’d used at the shop, wrapped in notepaper. The paper read, _Willow, feel free to drop by anytime you’d like to learn self-defence spells_.

She crammed the note and the crystal back into her pocket, and smiled.


End file.
